The History Professor
by Stalker of Stories
Summary: The war ended in victory. There were few deaths, and the Wizarding World rejoiced. But Percy Weasley had always been a bit of a perfectionist. Time-travel, slight tweaking of canon. Percy-centric. A series of vignettes.


**Warnings: Eventual character death, time travel, maybe coarse language, multiple PoVs.**

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling and associates of whom I am not one. No profit is being made from this work.**

I: The Philosopher's Stone

"What are all the classes like? I'm so interested in them – the texts are very informative of course but the way it's taught can make all the difference!" Hermione Granger, an eleven year old new-found witch, gushed. Her informant, the red-headed prefect and elder brother to one of her own new yearmates, wasn't the least bit put off by her enthusiasm.

If all wizards were as fond of knowledge as he seemed, why, Hermione thought she just might make some friends here, too.

"All of the professors are highly qualified of course," Percy explained. "Professor McGonagall is strict, but kind, and very straightforward in lessons. Professor Flitwick is excitable, to be sure, but the man is sharp as a tack." He was counting off subjects on his fingers. "I only had Professor Quirrell in my third year, when he was still teaching muggle studies, but he took a sabbatical last year to get some experience to take over the Defense post. He was always very nice and informative, but his lessons are often colored by personal opinion so supplementary reading is a must.

"Professor Sprout for Herbology is a bit all over the place, wonderful woman, but given all her lessons are practical she can't always have her eye where it needs to be. As for the History Professor… well, as they said in the introduction, he's new. I've never heard of the man, but even I can admit replacing Professor Binns is a good thing."

"Professor Binns?" Hermione had heard the name in her speech of course, but little had been said on the matter.

"The old History of Magic professor, he's been teaching here since 1902," he started to explain, but Hermione interrupted.

"_1902_? But that's… how on _earth_?" After all, that would mean the man had taught at Hogwarts for _89 years_. How old he must have been!

"As I was saying, Professor Binns was approximately 35 when he started teaching at Hogwarts, and he died in the 1940s, but he continued teaching as a ghost ever since," Percy leaned in a little closer. "Rumor has it he fell asleep in his chair and didn't wake up, but he got up to teach class anyway. There is, of course, nothing to substantiate that rumor. It's rare for a wizard to die of natural causes so young – many wizards live well into their hundreds mind you, so being in his seventies is indeed considered 'young' – but it's rarer still for a ghost to pass on as Dumbledore says he must have. With how few NEWT students have passed through his lessons in the time Binns started, I'm… rather surprised that there was anyone in Britain qualified for the job."

Hermione caught the unspoken 'and so young'.

Her eyes drifted up to the head table, where the new professor was conversing with the diminutive Professor Flitwick. He was certainly the youngest at the table with vivid red hair on par with the Weasley family all seated at her table. She could make out few details, but thought he couldn't be older than 25 perhaps.

"Who's that talking to Professor Quirrell?" Harry Potter's voice broke through and Hermione realized that that professor had yet to be mentioned.

She would find out more about Professor Weatherby firsthand, she supposed.

* * *

As could be expected of any room full of eleven year old children, Harry's first History of Magic class was slightly rowdy as they waited for their professor to appear. Dean, Seamus and Ron were all arguing over sports – Dean for football and the two wizarding boys for Quidditch, though they supported rival teams – while Parvati and Lavendar were chatting loudly with some Hufflepuff girls. A Hufflepuff boy was telling anyone who would listen that the class was doomed to be dead boring, because the only history on the curriculum for the class had been goblin wars for the past _century_.

Harry thought that actually sounded pretty wicked, but then again he had found learning about the Hundred Years War in primary to be rather dull, so maybe the Hufflepuff was right.

All in all it was only Harry and the know-it-all Hermione Granger who were somewhat peaceful. Hermione because her nose was stuck in the History text, and Harry because he just didn't know what to do. He only knew as much about Quidditch as Ron told him on the train, only so much about football as he'd learned in primary for phys ed (and to be honest, the instructor hadn't even tried teaching them the rules, so Harry spent the whole period making sure Dudley didn't kick his shins) and he didn't know how to talk to girls, either.

Thankfully, Professor Weatherby entered the room one minute before class was due to start, and the room was quick to settle down.

"Good afternoon class, please put away any books, wands, or anything that is not a quill, ink, and parchment," the Professor's voice was a little reedy, but held command well. "Yes, this includes the textbook for this class, Ms Granger. While I do appreciate Madam Bagshot's work, it's not what I would have chosen. While we will be using the textbook in the later portions of the class, for the first term we will be focusing on modern history."

"But then why did you assign this one?" Hermione looked absolutely scandalized. She had read _the whole thing_ after all. Harry might have liked to do the same, he supposed, but the texts were all rather dry, and he hadn't had much time to himself in August.

"Professor Binns passed on in mid-August, while letters were sent out in late July. By the time I took the position two weeks ago, it was too late to ask students to pick up a new book," Professor Weatherby's answer was rather nonchalant, as if he had already said as much many times. He may well have, actually. It was Wednesday afternoon, so they were hardly his first class."

"For this term our coursework will focus on wizarding history of the 20th century, beginning with what muggles refer to as World War One. If anyone desires supplementary books, see me after class and I may provide a list of books on hold with the library. It is not necessary, as my lecture will cover all pertinent material, but if you believe your own notes may be insufficient I strongly suggest it."

All in all, it wasn't the boring class the Hufflepuff boy claimed, and Harry rather thought he learned a lot in his first glance at wizarding history.

* * *

Neville Longbottom dipped his quill in ink and set the tip on his paper, writing for the 37th time that evening, _If I cannot remember the password to my common room, I will knock_.

In retrospect it seemed like rather sound advice and, given how absolutely ridiculous the night three days previous had been… well, he supposed it was a very reasonable, even light, punishment. He only had to write the line 100 times, after all.

_If I cannot remember the password to my common room, I will knock._

And better his line than Hermione's – 100 times writing _I will persist in being reasonable and not follow my housemates into danger unless I can get them out of it. They can be dunderheads on their own time. I am not the keeper to those who refuse to see reason._

It was fitting of course, but _long_. Given Neville had been an unfortunate tag-a-long and Hermione had jumped headlong when her housemates refused to see reason… well.

Ron, meanwhile, had _250_ times to write _I will not be goaded into volunteering my friend for a potentially lethal duel or other dangerous activity_. Neville thought he couldn't be very far yet; Ron didn't seem a fast writer, and he kept almost-swearing at his quill. The one time he had said anything even slightly coarse, Professor Weatherby had given him a good dressing down.

And then there was Harry's line….

200 times writing _I shall be goaded by neither my friends nor my foes unless it is unavoidable_.

It was… oddly open. Neville's was straight forward, addressing precisely his mistake that night. Hermione's seemed to address her bossiness problem that everyone, only two weeks into classes, already knew about her, and Ron's addressed a short temper, which Neville later heard was what got him to accept the duel invitation on Harry's behalf. Harry's, however, seemed to tell him to stand up for himself.

That was patently ridiculous of course. He was _Harry Potter_. Why would he need to stand up for himself? He must have ten times the spine Neville had!

Lastly, Neville couldn't bring himself to feel bad for Malfoy if he tried. While it had only been the four that Professor Weatherby had caught out, he had known to do so because he heard Malfoy bragging about setting them up. As such, Malfoy had _two_ detentions for trying to get other students in trouble, even if they should have known better.

_I will not try to set up, goad, provoke, or otherwise attempt to get in trouble any student of Hogwarts school who would not otherwise perform the actions which deserve punishment. _250 times, just like Ron, but his sentence was longer.

Neville didn't think it would sink in, though he hoped so. He had heard nasty things about Lucius Malfoy after all. Neville had certainly learned a lesson from the night of the supposed duel though, and not just the one about not entering the third floor corridor when the Headmaster said its contents could kill.

_If I cannot remember the password to my common room, I will knock._

61 lines to go.

* * *

"Wingardium Leviosa!" Ron swished and flicked his wand in near desperation as he watched Harry Potter, who had swiftly become his best friend, almost wrestle the troll. He concentrated on the correct pronunciation, just like Granger had been harping on him about in class that morning.

And the club floated, leaving the troll to swing an empty hand.

But floating a club was a lot harder than a feather. It weighed more, and had less aerodynamic potential. It dropped like a block of lead on the troll's oddly tiny head, causing it to collapse, but not before dropping Harry back to the ground.

Hurried steps reached them just as Hermione stood.

"What in the name of Merlin are you three doing out of your common room?" the now unmistakable voice of Professor Weatherby echoed lightly in through the girls' loo. While in lecture his voice had a certain rhythmic tone Ron sometimes thought he could fall asleep to – until Granger asked a question and cut through the nearly peaceful sounds – outside of it he often had a somewhat bossy tone like Granger or Percy. But not completely bossy, not the totally stern way he was speaking to them now.

"I went looking for the troll," Hermione's voice cut the room before Ron or Harry could think to say anything. "I've read all about them, and I thought one of the spells was simple enough that I could do it, but…"

Ron felt relief flood him. Maybe Hermione Granger wasn't that bad after all, if she was willing to cover for the real reason she had been in the loo instead of the feast.

"Ms Granger, I regret to inform you that you are a terrible liar," Weatherby stood with his arms still crossed. "I have far too many siblings with tongues of silver to believe you. I would appreciate the truth." Feeling the pressure of the professor's gaze, she did admit the truth. That she had been bullied into hiding in the loo all evening. The professor's gaze turned to Ron. "Mr Weasley, have you apologized to Ms Granger?"

"I- er, sorry, Hermione," he knew the look on Weatherby's face. It was like his mum looked at the twins when they put a giant slug in Ginny's wardrobe.

"Ms Granger, do you feel Mr Weasley has adequately made up for his behavior?" Ron turned to see Hermione nodding frantically. "Good, then…"

The other professors arrived. Professor Weatherby was able to relate the incident with astonishing accuracy, though he claimed Hermione had not been in the loo for bullying when Quirrell showed up at the feast, merely that she had been in the loo. For rescuing Hermione, the two boys were awarded ten points apiece and docked five for not notifying a prefect or professor instead.

* * *

"Honestly, you should be more careful!" Madame Pomfrey eyed her patients with no small amount of exasperation. There was a Quidditch match today. She expected injuries, like Wood coming in with a cracked skull again or some other terrible injury because he was so bull-headed. Even the Potter boy, small as he was.

But _two_ professors appearing in her ward not ten minutes into the match? And both of them the new professors for the year.

"I really am quite sorry," Percival Weatherby scratched the back of his head, looking down at the sheets. He had already been fed two potions and would have his shoulder mended within the next half hour. "I was running late you see, haven't seen a match in years, and my peripheral vision is atrocious."

"Q-quite alright P-Percival," came the typical stammering reply of Quirinus Quirrell, the Defense professor. Poppy had been surprised by it every time she encountered him these past months. Before his sabbatical, Quirinus had always been rather outgoing and outspoken, but it seemed his venture to gain real experience had damaged him. "I w-w-wasn't looking where I w-was g-g-going." There was a tiny aborted attempt at a chuckle.

Quirinus had come off the worst of the two. From what Poppy could gather, they had both been running a bit late to the game. Percival had taken it all at a bit of a run, and Quirinus had been reading as he climbed the stairs into the teachers' seats. Percival had knocked into him and both had taken a tumble down two flights of stairs, momentum carrying them around corners until they hit grass.

It seemed Quirinus had managed to land on one stair awkwardly with his book and snapped his leg in two, and was covered in bruises from head to toe. He was adamant, blushing and stammering, when he insisted he could apply the bruise balm himself after his leg was healed, and Poppy had acquiesced.

Still.

"You had _both _better be more careful from now on," she reminded them snappily. Apologies were all well and good, but it did nothing to prevent them from doing it _again_. "It's bad enough I've students coming through my ward day in and day out with broken toes and nose hair to their knees! I do _not_ want professors setting such an example to them."

Both seemed suitably chastised, though Poppy gave them a bit more, just to be sure. It never _quite_ worked with students, but these were both grown men and she felt they should act like it.

* * *

"He's not in this one either," Hermione frowned, snapping the book shut after skimming the glossary _and_ the index. Nicholas Flamel was proving an elusive fellow, to be sure.

"How have we not found him yet? We've searched the whole library!" Ron groaned. He had stopped being useful nearly an hour ago, something Hermione was almost amused by. Almost. Mostly she was annoyed at how he had face-planted into the book he had been searching through and refused to move since, only complain.

"We've been through only half the books on modern wizarding history," Hermione rolled her eyes as she said this. While she had read many of the supplementary texts suggested by Professor Weatherby, they had continued going through the shelves in the history section. There was no mention of Nicholas Flamel, and without Flamel they couldn't find out what was beyond the trapdoor.

"I think I fou- oh," Harry paused, "never mind. 'Flamel, Perenelle,' not Nicholas. Maybe they're related, but the listing is just for a new healing potion she invented." Harry's latest assigned book was a compendium of magical discoveries of the 1980s, published that very year. Unfortunately, it was sorted by subject rather than author, and there was no index, so he had to skim the top of each page for names.

Hermione might have insisted on taking that one for herself if she didn't think she would get distracted by all the interesting theories and inventions listed in those pages.

"Remind me again _why_ we can't just ask Pince?" Ron had rolled his head to the side, nose no longer buried in the spine of _Modern Wizardry: The Who's Who of Wizarding Europe_. His face had slight pressure marks from not moving for so long.

"We're not _supposed_ to be researching this, technically," Hermione reminded him. "What if Dumbledore told her to watch for anyone looking into it? He must know someone is trying to get past Fluffy, after all, and Professor Snape did a poor job hiding his limp."

"I think camping out in the history section might cancel that out, Hermione," Ron rolled his eyes and Hermione puffed up. But then she remembered that, while they hadn't been friends long, Ron was in the habit of taking the mickey out of friends. He wasn't making fun of her, per se, not _really _mocking her. It was… friendly banter, she supposed.

"Camping in here might not be as comfortable as your dorms." The trio jumped and each turned to the source of the voice. Professor Weatherby was standing at the end of the aisle wearing a small smile.

He adjusted his glasses and Hermione was struck, not for the first time, with the thought that he resembled the Weasleys a bit. His hair was spot on, though he kept it shorter than any of them. He had a long nose like Ron and Percy, and like Percy was very thin and tall, though less gangly, with the same dark eyes. He was more heavily freckled, but Hermione could have mistaken him for being another of Ron's brothers if she didn't know better.

"O-oh! Hello Professor," Hermione stammered out quickly while the boys both managed a "hullo."

"Ms Granger, Messers Potter and Weasley," Professor Weatherby nodded his head to each in turn. "Is there anything I could help you find? It looks like you've taken every text relevant to this term's lectures. While I appreciate the initiative, I have to wonder if you were looking for something specific?"

While Ron and Harry gaped like fish, Hermione had three seconds to compose a response without looking suspicious. Would Professor Weatherby be "in the know"? It was possible, even likely, that he wouldn't know about the strange package Hagrid and Dumbledore were hiding on the third floor. He was a new professor, not even signed on until two weeks before the start of term. He might not find the name Nicholas Flamel a suspicious search topic.

It was worth a shot.

"We're trying to find information on Nicholas Flamel," Hermione stated. Well within the time window to not look odd.

"Flamel? Is Professor Snape already assigning projects on alchemy to first years?" Professor Weatherby questioned aloud, though it didn't seem directed at them. Still, the word _alchemy_ caught Hermione's attention. She had heard about it in her muggle books before. Alchemy was considered the precursor to proper science.

In alchemy, the goals were material – turning lead into gold – and medical – creating immortal life. It was impossible of course, in both magical and muggle terms. For muggles, it had merely yielded other discoveries in medicine and the creation of alloys. For witches and wizards, well, it went against the Laws of Magic. One of the laws of transfiguration stated that magic could not create gold – Hermione wasn't sure how, given the element was nestled between two others that magic _could_ synthesize, but she knew the law had yet to be disproven – while another stated that though magic could prolong life, it could not do so indefinitely.

"Well, no matter," Professor Weather's voice cut Hermione from her train of thought. "I can see why you would think to look in modern history texts, but Nicholas Flamel's work is more likely to be detailed in these books." He indicated a shelf of biographies written in the 17th and 18th century. "Or on a book on alchemy, but those specifically are in the restricted section, for NEWT Potions students only. Still, I'm sure with… yes, this one ought to do," he pulled a tome from the shelf that even Hermione considered _monstrous_, "with this text, you should have all the information you need regarding Nicholas Flamel. The biography hasn't been updated since the Revolutions of 1848, but unless you need to know about his work with dragon blood this should be sufficient. If you do, that will be in the potions section."

"Th-thank you," Hermione was rather surprised by how comprehensive he was in his help. She had had teachers help her of course; with her respect for authority, she had even come to expect it. But Professor Weatherby was _thorough_.

"Thanks Professor," Harry chimed in. Hermione saw him elbow Ron from the corner of her eye, drawing a "er, yeah, thanks" from the unenthused boy.

"Any time," Weatherby smiled. "See you in class tomorrow. Good luck with your essay."

* * *

"Remember everyone, that's two feet on the Wizarding Hapsburg Empire by next lesson," Professor Weatherby informed the class. "Please do not write more than three feet on the subject. If you are inclined to go more in depth, perhaps you should consider taking the NEWT course in a few years. And Mr Longbottom, I would be much obliged if you would stay behind for a few minutes."

Neville immediately froze in his preparations to leave, then quickly resumed, palms starting to sweat. What had he done? He had managed to answer the question in class regarding Marie Antoinette without stammering, and it had been a month since he got his last essay back with a low E, he doubted it was to do with that.

Why, then, would the professor ask him to stay behind?

When the rest of the room was clear of students, Professor Weatherby smiled. It was a peculiar smile, Neville thought. Not _bad_. But when Professor Weatherby smiled it always looked a little… off. Like he knew something no one else did, but also like he was remembering something, though whether it was happy or sad was anyone's guess. He was a man who seemed to live by the words that "those who fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it." Their unit on the war against You-Know-Who had lasted a full month and, according to talk in the common room, it was a subject they would go even more in depth on in Third year.

"Not to worry Neville, you're in no trouble in my class," the professor stated quickly. "You're actually doing quite well, in the top half of all the first years. Pomona – that is, Professor Sprout – said you're gifted with Herbology, but I think you might have a good head for history as well."

"Um, th-thanks," Neville murmured, surprised. He had thought, when the professor announced his tests had a solid E-average throughout all years, that that would put Neville in the back end of the class, but apparently not. "Professor Sprout has mentioned me?"

"Of course," Weatherby nodded. He was leaning against his desk rather than sitting behind it. Neville wondered if it was an attempt to make him less intimidated by the older man's presence. "It's a bit of an open secret that at staff meetings we discuss students with promise in our subjects, as precedence for allowing them to skip a year or for career counseling in later years mostly. We also occasionally discuss students who could use some tutoring or encouragement in other subjects which is actually why I wanted to talk to you."

Neville tried hard not to panic. What class was he doing poorly enough in that another teacher would want to talk to him about it? Potions, naturally. He wasn't doing very well in most of his classes, but only in Potions was he meriting an intervention.

"I'm sure you know how your Potions grade stands, suffice to say that Professor Snape's primary comment regarding your work has involved melted cauldrons," Weatherby went on even as a Neville felt a blush spread across his face. "Given your Herbology scores, I would say you have a good handle on theory but could stand to brush up on the properties of the animal ingredients. But that's not what I am here to give you advice on. I suggest speaking to Ms Granger on advice for supplementary material."

"R-right," Neville murmured. It wasn't as though he hadn't tried to learn the properties of things like salamander eyes as well as he knew the properties of a Devil's Snare's fiber. But Snape never did the potions in order and he had too many other classes to be able to take time to memorize the whole book like Hermione had.

"In recent years," Weatherby began anew, "I've come to notice a decrease in the quality of cauldrons. Specifically, up until a decade ago it was standard for all pewter cauldrons to have a two inch thick bottom, to decrease the chances of burning, overheating, or otherwise interfering with its contents. Those two inches are not entirely necessary, being half an inch thicker than absolutely necessary to prevent the magical properties of a small fire from interfering with the potion. Neville, do you know the current standard thickness for the pewter cauldrons used by Hogwarts students?"

"Er, no?" He had never really thought about it. The sides couldn't be more than half an inch thick, but he had never paid any mind to the bottom.

"A mere three quarters of an inch, only half of what is necessary to protect the potion from the fire at the standards instructed in your textbook," Weatherby explained. "I will spare you the technical details, suffice to say that was a matter I researched extensively some time ago. From 1950 to 1982, there were only three instances of melted cauldrons in Hogwarts, and all of those were from highly acidic potions which should have been brewing in solid gold or silver cauldrons rather than pewter. From 1982 until last Friday, there have been precisely 263 melted cauldron bottoms, and half of those have been in the past two years, when the thickness decreased from one inch to the current three quarters."

If nothing else, Neville was surprised. It took Hermione-level obsession to pull out those kind of statistics.

"I have of course discovered the manufacturer of these subpar cauldrons and lodged a formal complaint with the ministry to tighten regulations, but might I suggest, for the sake of your Potions grade, that you obtain a cauldron made either before 1980 or imported from the continent?"

When Neville left, he wasn't entirely certain what to think of Professor Weatherby. It had been a rather odd conversation all told, albeit helpful, but he did remember to pen a letter to his grandmother on the matter after dinner.

* * *

"Today's lecture will be a slight shift from the previous topics, however I assure you that it is in line with the curriculum and _will_ be on the exam," Weatherby began. Ron tried not to make his groan _too_ audible, but Hermione still stepped on his foot under the desk to say that yes, she had heard him, and no, he would not be getting any sympathy from her.

_Traitor_, he thought. He would still take notes of course, or Professor Weatherby would pull a repeat of their third lesson, when he had given Ron – and only Ron – a surprise verbal pop quiz since he "obviously thought he didn't need notes". Ron lost five points that day and was given a stern reminder that the lecture was what all essays and tests would be based on, so he had best learn to take notes.

And even Ron had to admit, it wasn't too hard to take good notes for Weatherby. He occasionally had them turn in their notes and would return them with suggestions to improve note taking. Shorter sentences, common abbreviations, stuff Ron could understand. And most of the important stuff went onto the blackboard anyway, so it wasn't hard to decide what he should take notes on.

Still though, he always felt like he hand was going to cramp up. And yet each period Hermione had what looked like her bloody NEWT dissertation being stuffed into her bag.

"Last week we covered the Bastille Day Conference of magical France and its effects on British wizarding law after the second fall of Napoleon," Weatherby continued, completely unaware of Ron's internal griping. "What I did not bring up was that at that time, in the Austro-Hungarian Empire, there was a movement among lower magical nobles to strip creature rights. Given the Austrian Hapsburg's carried veela blood, this was a threat to their reign, thus at the same time as the Bastille Day conference, the Hapsburgs were holding court.

"While the end results would spread with the coalition of the anti-revolutionary coalition mere years later, I'm going to highlight the important points now, and explain the decisions leading up to each," Weatherby flicked his wand at the blackboard as he spoke, and a stick of chalk started writing the most important parts of his coming speech.

"Firstly, was that the Hapsburgs relied on precedence of the international distinction between 'creatures' and 'beings'. Beings, being humanoid, sentient, and capable of performing magic consciously, such as house elves, goblins, hags, and merpeople. Creatures, being nonhumanoid, not known to be sentient or incapable of expressing their sentience to wizards, and incapable of magic outside of their natural magic, such as dragons, kneazles, and quintapeds. If you will remember from last month, this is a loose precedent, as centaurs voluntarily chose to fall in the creature category, stating they didn't want to be in the same category as those who would categorize and remove rights based on category.

"Second, the opponents of the Hapsburgs, hoping to steal the Empire from them, argued that veela should not count as 'beings' given their ability to change form into creatures and that veela squibs were still capable of this change, controlling their allure, and conjuring fire. Meaning that veela were not inherently magical beings but rather magical creatures, and it was only the inclusion of human blood in some lines such as that of the Hapsburgs which allowed them to consciously wield magic.

"Third, was that the dragon population of the Austro-Hungarian Empire experienced a boom that year, and livestock throughout the Empire was disappearing, leading to greater murmurings of rebellion among the peasants. Considering the revolution going on in France at the time, this was a serious threat and one the Emperor needed to address, even if in doing so he must confront the his anti-veela opponents. Given his niece, Marie Antoinette, was still held captive in France at the time, he needed both matters to end in his favor so that he could secure her rescue."

Ron glanced over at Hermione, who was paying closer attention that usual. She'd caught it too then. Dragons. Maybe they would learn something to help out Hagrid and Norbert?

"Fourth, was that at this time came the first hint that dragons might fall closer to the category of Being, or quasi-being, as a legilimens had recently managed a connection with a Norwegian Ridgeback, and had pleaded his case for the protection of the species. Fifth, was the overwhelming outrage of the nobles at the idea, and their insistence that harboring a dragon, or acting to defend one, be a capital offense."

Hermione's quill stopped scratching on the parchment and Ron swallowed something thick in his throat. Yeah, they just might learn something about dragon law today. And not anything Hagrid would enjoy hearing, from the sounds of it.

* * *

"Enter," Minerva McGonagall called when she heard the sharp rap on her door. It was summarily opened to reveal not a student, but rather her newest colleague. "Percival, I wasn't expecting a visit. Were you looking to continue our discussion from dinner, or something else?"

_Doesn't he have any grading to do?_ She wondered. But, then, his work load for students was rather light. Certainly lighter than Binns had dealt out, but to mixed results. Most students seemed to be taking well to only having one essay and two tests each month. Some still struggled, although Minerva would guess that they would have fared worse in Binns' lessons. Some of the older students had certainly seen an improvement.

"Something else indeed, Minerva," Percival's smile was thin and weak. How odd. "I heard you turned over the detention of Potter, Granger, Longbottom, and Malfoy to Argus?"

"Yes, he's typically the one to deal with curfew breaches," Minerva informed Percival. Typically, Professors only oversaw detention if the activity in question was in their classroom or broke rules specific to their discipline. "What seems to be the problem."

"I was speaking to Rubeus after dinner, telling me about the unicorn problem you know," Percival waited for her nod. All the staff knew about the missing unicorns and the blood. Nasty business. "Argus overheard, and determined that going into the forest with Rubeus while he investigates tonight would be a suitable detention."

"_What_?" Minerva was on her feet in an instant. Students were forbidden from the forest. And first years who barely knew how to cast lumos, let alone anything needed to defend themselves? Rubeus Hagrid could only do so much with his crossbow, and he couldn't use that pink umbrella on school grounds. Fang wasn't about to help anyone, either.

"Albus approved of the action," Percival added, completely knocking the wind from Minerva's sails. "I went to him first, hoping him to repeal the decision and reassign their detention to something more fitting. He said it has to be done, and that Rubeus knows the forest well enough, that he would surely know to keep only to the safest paths. Scare the children, maybe meet some centaurs."

"But he's has been trying to help the unicorns for a week now," Minerva sighed, falling back into her chair. She rested her head in her hand. Sometimes, she felt her age as thoroughly as if she were a muggle. "He might not think much of the forest. He forgets not everyone is so large as him, that first year students only learn defensive theory. They couldn't defend themselves against _pixies_ as it stands."

"I'm afraid we can't change the detention, but I came to request I be sent along for extra supervision," Percival's request was quiet, and all Minerva could do was nod.

What was Albus _thinking_?

* * *

"Ouch!" Harry's hand slammed to his forehead, drawing Hermione's attention and halting her one-sided discussion on the History exam they had just finished.

"Harry? Are you alright?" She watched his fingers rub lightly at his scar. She had heard of old scars acting up, but usually that was in reference to rain or near the anniversary of receiving it. Given Harry had received his scar on Hallowe'en and it was mid-June, with no rain in sight, she couldn't think of a particular reason.

"My scar hurts," he murmured. "It only did that in the forest. I think… it might be a warning? Maybe?"

The next fifteen minutes was a whirlwind of running that started with a trip to Hagrid's cabin and ended with them panting outside of Professor McGonagall's office. The door of which she had just shut in their faces.

"Right, no more Professors," Ron grumbled. "They're not going to listen."

"You can't know that!" Hermione squawked. "Professor McGonagall is the Deputy Headmistress; it makes sense she would trust Professor Dumbledore above everything. We need to find someone to help who doesn't have the Headmaster on… on a pedestal." The words felt like ash on her tongue. But there _had_ to be an adult they could go to.

They had to be able to tell _someone_ about Snape's plans. That he knew how to get past Fluffy.

"Yeah? Quirrell's useless, Hagrid thinks we're paranoid. Who do you think would help?" Ron was a little red in the face, and Harry curiously quiet as he watched them. "The only professor who won't be exactly like McGonagall is Snape, and that's only because he'd _kill_ us for finding him out."

Oh Merlin, wasn't _that_ true? Hermione wouldn't have believed it before, but after the forest and Harry's run in with what could only be Voldemort over that unicorn, and Professor Weatherby corroborating the story of it drinking unicorn blood…

"That's it!" Hermione grabbed both boys' wrists and started dragging them along behind her.

"What? What's it? Please tell me we aren't going to Snape," Ron asked, tugging at his arm but otherwise keeping pace.

"Professor Weatherby! We can try him, can't we?" She called behind her.

"What? But he was useless in the forest, Harry said so himself!" Ron cried. "Back me up Harry!"

But Hermione wasn't listening. She dragged her boys kicking and screaming to Professor Weatherby's office on the next floor, and she rapped sharply on the door before either of them could stop her.

And then she spilled the entire story. Nicholas Flamel, the Philosopher's Stone, Fluffy, Norbert, Snape threatening Quirrell on multiple occasions, and now Dumbledore gone to the Ministry right when Snape had found out how to bypass Fluffy? And by _broom_ no less, when there were three easy and near-instantaneous transportation methods he could have used.

"I see," Weatherby sighed. "I'll send him an owl straight away and floo the Ministry to see if he has arrived. If not, I'll leave him a message at the front desk to floo straight back to school. I'm afraid there isn't much more I can do beyond that. I can keep an eye out for Severus tonight. While I might like to think this a false alarm… the forest at least proves something is going on, and the Philosopher's Stone _is_ here."

Hermione thanked the man profusely, the boys behind her nodding in surprise. Hermione had to wonder why they had so little faith in adults, when they were clearly looking out for their benefit and safety.

Still, Professor Weatherby's promise wasn't enough to keep them from going after Snape. And it wasn't until Hermione was hoisting Ron's semi-conscious form onto a broom, five minutes since Harry passed into the final chamber, that Professor Dumbledore ran by them to save Harry.

She only hoped he would be in time.

* * *

Cuthbert Binns had been 78 when he died. No one was certain what killed him, and as a ghost he was fine not knowing. He knew it had not been weight that killed him – he had never been especially large or especially scrawny – nor was there any history of heart disease in his family (or what history of such could be compiled in those days). He did not have any enemies who would want to poison him.

He had, up to his dying day, been a rather unremarkable, unmemorable, and boring man. His colleagues frequently forgot his existence, his students dismissed his tutelage, and his own family frequently forgot he was still alive every year come family reunions or weddings, always surprised that he showed up even when he RSVPed in the positive.

None of this had changed when he died, except that he stopped attending family functions, having decided to tie his ghost to Hogwarts to keep teaching. He could have taught without tying his existence to the castle, but ghosts without a "home" eventually became poltergeists, and he was much too boring a man for such a chaotic – nay, _insane_ – existence as that. And really, Headmaster Dippet had been entirely too happy to allow him to stay on, unpaid, to continue his life's work.

That said, Cuthbert was exceedingly surprised on August 9th, 1991, to find an owl on his desk. It was a no-nonsense post owl, he could tell from the off, bearing a letter in its beak rather than on its leg, likely because the sender knew he would not be able to remove it.

Not that he would be able to open the envelope or pick it up, but it was the thought that counted, especially when no one thought of him at all.

When he floated over to his desk, the tawny owl dropped the letter and waited. Its back was straight, and was watching him closely, head turning over so slowly to keep its gaze fixed directly in his incorporeal form, markings around its eyes like horn-rimmed glasses making the direction of its gaze slightly more apparent. Given owls could not move their eyes in their sockets, this behavior made sense.

Deciding to humor the bird, Cuthbert Binns moved as if to pick up the letter, despite knowing his hand would merely pass through it.

Until his hand was stopped and he could almost feel the sensation of parchment.

_That's new_, he mused. He slowly made to close his hand around the letter. His thumb went through the desk to the underside of the parchment and- yes, he was able to pick it up. His eyebrows were high on his brow now, but the owl continued to watch him.

At length, Cuthbert Binns opened the letter, and he read.

Later that same day, he could be found with a Dictaquill, drafting a letter of recommendation for his replacement. The owl nodded approvingly from where it read, and took off out the open window.

That night, Cuthbert attended dinner in the great hall with what few staff were in the castle to announce his retirement and inform Albus as to where he could locate his letter of recommendation for his replacement of choice. After the confused meal and a few questions, he went to the staffroom, seated himself in the same armchair in which he had died-

And then he was gone.

**End Year 1**

**Author's Note: What does it say about my feel for Percy Weasley's character that I make the longest scene in the first chapter just him lecturing about cauldron bottom thickness? Damn you book 4.**

**The History Professor has no set update schedule. It's an up-as-I-write-it kind of thing, one chapter per year. I felt the need for some Percy-centric fiction and since it's hard to find any that isn't him and Harry going at it (which isn't awful I guess but not a pairing I'm fond of and I've yet to find any with either character in character anyway), I wrote some. Even though very few scenes in this whole thing will ever be from his perspective, I still consider is Percy-centric since it's about his effect on the Harry Potter timeline, just largely from the outside perspective. **

**(I will admit I'm partly basing Percy's teaching style on my history professor who is pretty awesome. But since he's not going to have a powerpoint presentation about beards, we should be okay.)**


End file.
